


Queen of Dust

by LadyLandshark



Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fem!Vegeta, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2018-01-07
Packaged: 2019-02-12 01:29:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12948387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLandshark/pseuds/LadyLandshark
Summary: A female Vegeta wrestles with being among the last of her race and her growing connections to the planet and people of Earth.





	1. Aftermath

It was Vegeta’s second time on the mudball Kakarot and his idiot friends called home. She hated it even more. 

Everything smelled wrong here, cloying and bright. It was surreal how chipper and  _ content _ everyone was, as if they had never known fear or hatred or any of the things that made the galaxy awful.

And she knew that they had. She'd caused some of it herself.

Not that she had much to compare it to favorable. The developed worlds of Frieza’s empire were often sterile and monotonous, indigenous cultures snuffed out to accommodate the tastes of the Cold family and their favored. And Vegeta had never been the type to go sightseeing, so she hadn’t really ventured much beyond the bases on most of the planets she’d been to. 

And there was Vegeta, her homeworld, whose memory she would not desecrate with such a comparison.

The blue-haired scientist had taken it upon herself to offer refuge to the survivors of Namek. The fools were more than glad to take her up on it, fitting in with the Earthlings like slime in a mold.

It seemed, perplexingly enough, that this invitation was extended to  _ her _ as well.

“Hey, Vegeta, I can fix your armor if you want,” she said, before leading her through the maze of a compound to a comparatively simple room. “You can borrow something of mine in the meantime.”

The room's single bed was piled with clothes. Evidently Bulma had seen fit to provide her with a multitude of options, no doubt for the amusement of seeing what fashion faux pas she would commit in her cultural obliviousness.

“Hmph,” she said.

“There's a bathroom just down the hall for you to get cleaned up in,” continued the scientist, “There's shampoo and soap and everything in the shower. Let me know if you need anything.” She then left Vegeta to choose.

The clothes were organized into colorful piles of bottoms, tops, and dresses. The array of choices was suddenly disorienting - there was almost nothing here that conformed to the rules she knew, no garment that was merely practical. Everything seemed to have some sort of embellishment or element of discomfort backed into its design, and almost nothing looked suitable for training.

In the end, she picked a short white top and a pair of the stiff blue pants, thinking that it might go with her boots. 

She found the bathroom and the shower. Actual running water, especially heated water, was a relief. She had been worried that this backwater might not have even figured that out. But they had, and the glorious, steaming cascade was the best thing she’d felt in ages. The shampoo and the soap smelled awful, like too-sweet fruit, but removed grime well enough. Satisfied with her cleanliness, she dried herself off with a rush of energy and changed into the borrowed outfit.

The steam from her shower had begun to fade from the mirror. Struck with a sudden curiosity, Vegeta wiped the rest away and examined herself. She looked… young. Smaller, less vicious.

With nothing else to do, she left the room. To her surprise, scientist had been waiting for her outside.

“You're actually pretty close to my size,” she said, looking at her thoughtfully. “Though you definitely pull off that crop top way better than I ever did.” She smirked. “I think poor Yamcha’s gonna have an aneurysm when he sees you in that.”

Vegeta was unsure as to how normal Earth clothes could be more intimidating to the weakling than her Saiyan armor.

“Hmph,” she said.

“I got all the clothes off your bed and into the drawers for you. I'll get started on your armor, too.”

“Hmph.”

“You're welcome!” snapped Bulma, hands on her hips.

Vegeta closed the door. Bulma let out an exaggerated huff and stormed off, leaving her alone.

The bed was indeed clear, and the other clothes had been organized and placed in the dresser across from the bed. Atop the dresser was some sort of viewing device. There seemed to be a matching device on the table next to her bed, and a few button presses later the screen sprung to life.

She flopped onto the bed and idly watched as Earthlings did silly, nonsensical things for a while, before eventually growing bored and deciding to look for food.

She found the scientist chatting with one of the weaklings on a patio. He caught sight of Vegeta and froze in fear. Bulma followed his gaze, looking unimpressed.

“There you are. Was wondering when you would come out of hiding.”

“I would like something to eat,” she said, ignoring the venom in the scientist’s tone.

“Kitchen’s downstairs,” replied the scientist sharply. She turned back to the weakling, who gaped at her in awe.

Vegeta left, holding in a snarl. The scientist and her idiot friend weren't worth the effort. She wandered around the house, only half looking for the kitchen.

“Oh, hello there, sweetie!” called a high-pitched voice in tones as horribly sweet as the shampoo.

She turned, confused, to meet a smiling blonde woman. 

“Who are you?” she snapped, perhaps even more abrasively than usual. The woman seemed completely unfazed, however, and continued to simper at her.

“I'm Panchi, Bulma’s mom,” she  _ giggled _ , “You must be Vegeta!”

“Yes, I am. Could you show me to the kitchen?” she asked, despite her shock.

“Of course! Are you hungry, sweetie?”

“...Yes.” 

The woman led her to a large, spacious room with a granite-topped island in the center. She insisted that Vegeta let her prepare a meal, and Vegeta was in no position to turn down the offer. So she sat and watched Bulma’s mother flitter between the appliances and cupboards, chattering away.

“If you're anything like our darling Goku, you'll probably want five times as much!”

The mention of Kakarot hit her almost physically. That nattering idiot, mockery of her race, had realized its greatest legend before her, the Princess of all Saiyans. Possibly instead of her.

And he had stolen the chance to avenge them from her. She wanted off this mudball, away from any place he might ever be.

“Here you go, sweetie!” cried Bulma’s mother, breaking Vegeta from her thoughts with a mountain of food. She barely recognized most of it, but it smelled more than palatable. She dug in, careful not to eat too quickly.

It tasted fine, if a bit odd compared to what she was used to. The food was probably the best thing about this world.

“Oh my! It looks like I was right!” squealed Bulma’s mother as Vegeta finished her meal.

“Oh hey mom - Vegeta,” said Bulma, entering the kitchen. Her surprise melted away, and she focused on her mother again. Vegeta could feel the anger rolling off her from her seat.

“Mom, why did - Nevermind. I’d like to speak to  _ our guest _ alone, if that’s okay with you,” she hissed.

“Of course, honey!” replied the woman, oblivious to the venom in her daughter’s tone. She left, and Bulma turned to glare daggers as Vegeta.

“You got my mother to cook for you?”

“Yes,” she said slowly, because apparently the obvious needed to be stated.

“Did you even thank her?” Bulma’s eyes narrowed.

Were Vegeta less dignified, she might have huffed in exasperation. The scientist’s mood was inexplicably intense. 

“Thank her?”

“Yes, thank her. Y’know,  _ express gratitude _ . You may not have had to do that as a Saiyan princess, but here on Earth when someone does something exceedingly - and I do mean  _ exceedingly _ \- generous for you, you say ‘thank you,’” she snarled.

“You are angry with me because you feel I have not expressed proper gratitude for your quartering me?” she hissed back, incredulous.

“Yes, you moron!”

“You dare insult me!” She stood up, clenching her fists. Bulma, to her credit, did not even flinch.

“I don’t give a shit! I don’t care who or what you are, I will call you a damn moron if you’re acting like one!”

Vegeta let her finish. She was angry herself now, and over something so foolish.

“My  _ gratitude _ for your hospitality is the only thing keeping me from backhanding you for your disrespect,” she snarled.

Bulma laughed. It was a sharp, unpleasant sound. “Oh, is that so? Go ahead and try it.”

Vegeta ground her teeth, unable to answer the scientist’s taunt. They both knew that Bulma and her father had too much that she wanted - a gravity chamber for training, food and shelter, and, most infuriatingly, the only possible way off this mudball - so she glared as hard as she possibly could before storming up to her room and slamming every door she encountered behind her.

Her anger evaporated as soon as she stopped, pensieve, in the small space. It was replaced with exhaustion, bone-deep and ancient. Saiyans, especially elites, showed gratitude merely by taking what was offered. Explaining that to the scientist, however, was below her dignity. 

She flopped back onto the bed and turned the screen back on. She tried to focus on the stories this time, to distract herself. But she was too tired and unfocused, so she closed her eyes and let her mind wander until she fell asleep.

She woke up fairly early the next morning and trudged down to the kitchen to hunt down some breakfast. She found some sort of odd, brown paste that smelled and tasted much more pleasant than it looked, assorted fruits, thinly-sliced salted meat products, and a whole bowl full of a brightly-colored gelatin.

Bulma shuffled in as she started on her meal, heading straight past her for the the cupboards. She fiddled with a machine on the counter for a bit, which began to make odd hissing noises and flood the kitchen with a strong, earthy scent.

The scientist had poured herself a mug of some sort of ichorous brown fluid before she came over to sit across from Vegeta. It took about three sips of it before she even seemed to notice her guest.

“Vegeta,” she grunted. Another sip.

It seemed that neither of them wanted to address the previous night’s argument. Vegeta decided that it fell to her to break the silence, as much as it grated on her pride.

“Where is Gohan?” she asked, both as a peace offering and out of genuine curiosity.

“With his mother. Why?” Bulma asked, suspicious.

“Are you not his mother?” 

“What? No, of course not. Why did you think that?” spluttered the scientist, surprise overcoming her previous ill humour.

“You traveled with him to Namek. And, given the fact that his father is an imbecile and he is not, it stands to reason that his mother must be intelligent.” Whatever she thought of the woman, there was no denying her brilliance.

“Oh, that’s… Actually a pretty reasonable assumption.” She seemed to be regarding Vegeta in a new light, as if a single cogent point was enough to prompt a complete reevaluation of her character.

“Of course it is,” she said, letting the insult slide. She went back to her food, and Bulma took another sip of her drink.

The silence continued for a bit, and she tried to come up with something else to say in order to continue the conversation.

“I do have to thank you for one thing,” said the scientist, surprising her beating her to the punch. Vegeta tried in vain to think of anything she could possibly be thanked for. There was nothing, so she was puzzled.

“The look on Yamcha’s face when he saw you in my clothes was priceless,” Bulma clarified, smirking.

Vegeta snorted. That it had been.


	2. Promises

After their breakfast conversation, the tension between Bulma and Vegeta that had been festering since their argument the previous day dissolved. Vegeta had even asked after the gravity chamber with what was - for her, at least -  _ monumental _ patience, and Bulma had happily waxed on about her and her fathers’ progress without so much as a harsh word.

Unfortunately, the fact that the gravity room wasn’t finished meant that she didn’t have much to do. She could train, but she’d never been able to get good results without something to work  _ against _ , be it a sparring partner or Saibamen or alien soldiers. It was the friction, she thought - of one being straining to overcome the other - that made one stronger.

The only fighters on this planet worth her time were unlikely to be interested in sparring her, and she was met with an immediate rush of distaste at the idea of asking them. But there was nothing she particularly wanted to do here, either. So she rifled through the clothes left in her room for a more practical pair of pants and left, soaring out of the compound and out of the city, straight into the pale blue sky. 

She was struck again by how intensely varied the scenery below her was, unlike so many other planets she had visited or purged. The closest had been a planet called Endenek, which had had precisely four biomes, each smattered with foliage and cities like growths of crystal. The inhabitants had been far stronger than initially anticipated, so they'd had to transform and completely raze the place. 

Alone and surrounded by sky, she closed her eyes and strained the new energy sense she had developed on Namek.

It was still new to her, and as such she could only tell location, intensity, and identity, whereas the Earthlings seemed to be able to distinguish things like emotions and motivations. It was frustrating to be so behind on what the weaklings considered a basic skill, akin to flying or firing ki blasts.

For her, the planet's greatest warriors were a dull throb against the background noise of life. Earth’s own Namekian was the strongest, off in the wastes further inland into the continent. She turned off in his direction, almost without thought.

The Namekian’s energy was cool and dense, like stone, rather different from hers or even that of the humans. She focused on his energy intently as she approached, straining to pick up any fluctuation that could attribute to his actions. It remained infuriatingly even, however; if he sensed her coming, he gave no indication that she could detect.

He was standing motionless on a cliff when she arrived, his back to her.

She said nothing.

He remained silent.

The wind was howling at this altitude, gathering up his cape and tossing it into rippling shapes. It was a stark image, as cold and unforgiving as the landscape.

“What do you want?” he rumbled, after what felt like an eternity.

“What do you think?” she snarled.

His answer was a punch sent cracking into her block.

She smirked, answering with punches of her own. They quickly got the measure of each other, building momentum until they could spar in earnest.

The Namekian’s style was, as she’d observed, sharp and technical, with a hint of savagery that spoke of a being darker than Earth’s other warriors. It was refreshing. 

She decided to use the chance to work on her own technical skill, as well as her energy sense - that pulse  _ there _ meant there was a strike coming  _ here _ , redirect the force and counter at the opening  _ there _ \- she easily lost herself in the rhythm.

For his part, the Namekian seemed to be practicing holding back a stronger foe; every move was calculated component of some larger strategy. She thought she could very nearly feel his mind working on ways to lure her into a trap or get her at a disadvantage. He was very, very good at it, landing more than his fair share of decent hits.

Their battle continued for a long time with neither of them gaining the upper hand. Vegeta found that she was enjoying herself in a way that she couldn’t really remember having done in recent memory. Eventually they began to tire, and their fight wound down.

“Why did you come looking for me?” he asked. Everytime he spoke his words seemed to carry so much weight - probably because of the contrast with his usual reticence. 

“Bulma hasn't finished my gravity chamber yet,” she said. It felt like the wrong answer.

“Are you ever going to fulfill your promise to Gohan?”

“What? How do you know about that?” she barked.

“He was excited about it. He's worried you might have forgotten.”

This sent her thoughts whirling around in her head. Apparently she had misjudged the relationship between the Namekian and Kakarot’s whelp. It was a bit stupid of her, really - the alien had laid down his life for the boy.

“I haven't forgotten,” she said, though this was only half true. It  _ had _ slipped her mind lately, focused as she was on literally anything aside from her recent adventures on Namek, but she would’ve eventually remembered. Besides, the brat’s interest in their Saiyan heritage was one of the few things worth remembering about that cavalcade of failures. 

Aside from her victories and the deaths of most of the people she’d ever hated, of course.

“Hmph,” he said, fixing her with a glare that imbued that single syllable with a mix of disbelief, reproach, and warning.

“I do not make promises lightly, Namekian,” she intoned, falling back on her old air of imperiousness, “I am the Princess of all Saiyans, and the brat is the closest thing I have to a subject left alive. Rest assured, I will honor our agreement.”

“What about Goku?”

“What  _ about _ Kakarot?” she hissed.

“Isn't he also your subject? Why not teach him about Saiyan culture?”

“He’s dead!”

“And he’ll be alive again soon,” he said in the tone one would use to argue with a child.

“I doubt that will have a positive effect on his ability to learn anything that doesn't involve fighting or eating,” she snapped.

To her great astonishment, a corner of his mouth twitched up, like the shifting of a mountain. All her previous irritation over the mention of Kakarot bled away, leaving her slightly numb.

“I suppose that's true,” he said,  _ smirking _ , “Though he might be interested in trying. What will you do if he asks?”

The bastard was taunting her.

“Tell him to talk to his brat,” she spit out instantly, “Why aren't you at the scientist’s compound learning Namekian culture?”

That wiped the smirk from his face. She felt a rush of petty satisfaction that dissolved as quickly as it came.

“I don't need to,” he rumbled.

She didn't have a response. After a few moments, he turned away.

The encounter felt unfinished in a way she didn't quite understand. She shuffled the events around in her head, as if trying to solve a puzzle by enumerating every possible combination of pieces. 

If she left now, he probably wouldn't want to spar with her again, and she couldn't afford to burn that bridge with so little else to do. It wasn't the whole picture, but it was something she could grasp.

“Where do the boy and his mother live?” she asked. For the second time in as many days, she'd had to extend a verbal peace offering. It was exhausting.

“I thought you'd learned to sense energy,” he said without turning to face her.

She recoiled from the sting of that barb. 

“I can -” she began with a hiss, before stopping to wrestle with herself, “I still have trouble distinguishing individual signatures.”

He turned back to her.

“You could get their location from Bulma,” he offered.

She nodded, feeling relieved without entirely understanding why. There was still something missing, some piece that hadn’t quite slotted into place. The lack of completion itched in the back of her mind even as she struggled to figure out what it was.

“I will visit the brat tomorrow. You may tell him as much, if you see him before then.”

He nodded back.

She flew off, heading back to Bulma’s. Most of the day was gone, and now the ground below her was dark and littered with twinkling lights. It could have been any other world. 

When she arrived to a new, delicious smell, she realized that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast. Bulma and her parents were in the kitchen, which was full of bags and boxes of whatever was producing that smell.

“There you are, Vegeta,” said Bulma, fixing herself a plate. “I heard you spent most of today fighting Piccolo. Figured I’d order us all something from a restaurant, because I didn’t think we’d have enough here for a Saiyan who’d skipped lunch.”

Vegeta nodded, and began to leaf through the containers, making sure to take at least five servings of each item. Bulma’s pet weakling must have sensed the sparring match and informed the scientist. She refused to think about how he was better at something than her.

“I guess I should apologize,” the scientist said next, and Vegeta yanked herself away from her food to face her.

“You’re a Saiyan,” she continued, “No matter how human you look, you’re still an alien. I shouldn’t have gotten so mad at you for not acting the way a human would.”

“Hmph,” said Vegeta approvingly.

Bulma rolled her eyes, but didn’t look angry, so Vegeta decided to converse.

“Where do Kakarot’s mate and brat live?” she asked.

“Why do you want to know?”   

“Because I have a promise to keep.”

“What kind of promise?” If Bulma’s suspicion weren’t so understandable, it would have been insulting by now.

“The brat wanted me to teach him about Saiyan culture. I agreed.”

The scientist brightened at this. “Oh, really? That’s very nice of you.”

“It is not ‘nice of me,’” she said, “I am the Princess of all Saiyans. When I give my word, I keep it.”

Bulma seemed to find this amusing for some reason. Vegeta went back to her food.

“Actually,” started the scientist, “I have a favor to ask you.”

Vegeta stopped eating again and narrowed her eyes. These Earthlings were quick to demand things of her for weaklings. Especially while she was eating.

“What sort of favor?”

“Oh, I was just wondering if you wouldn’t mind helping me understand the current state of the galaxy. Technologically, scientifically, politically - anything, really, that might help with building stuff. And, I guess, just knowing who and what else is out there.”

It was, of course, an understandable demand. Between the Earthlings’ violent introduction to the Planet Trade Organization and their quartering of one its most wanted defectors, they had made themselves a target for vengeance. Neither Vegeta nor the scientist were naive enough to believe that killing Frieza had negated the threat, and Vegeta was the only being around with any knowledge of the galaxy at large.

“I will consider it,” she said between bites. In truth, she had every intention of informing the scientist of every technical thing she knew; she wanted to leave this rock as soon as possible, after all.

“Good,” she said, seeming to understand. “I can give you the coordinates of Goku’s place and and a device to help you navigate tomorrow.”

“Hmph.”

With the conversation over, Vegeta was able to finish eating in almost no time. She left to no protest from Bulma and headed for her room.

Her clothes had, miraculously, survived the day’s activities. They were much too dirty to continue wearing, however, and she resigned herself to the task of finding something else that was actually wearable in the morning.

Her muscles were just starting to burn pleasantly from exertion, her stomach was full, and her head buzzed with another satiety she couldn’t name. It was sending lethargy pulsing through her veins, and even years of heightened vigilance could not keep her from sinking into relaxation.

In a rare state of contentment, she thought about her home planet. She pulled out the memories, gently unwrapping them like a collector would a priceless, fragile artifact. They played in her head - the sprawling compound of the palace, sparse and utilitarian but for the living quarters, the warm night time breeze rushing in through her open balcony door, the lilt of her mother’s voice singing in the Saiyan language, songs gorgeous and ancient.

She packed them away carefully, burying them under more recent thoughts. Her conversation with the Namekian earlier still didn’t quite make sense, and there was the matter of exactly how much time she’d need to spend lecturing the whelp to satisfy her promise.

Unfortunately, another memory bubbled up from its protected nook of a promise she’d made much, much earlier. One that this horrible, too-comfortable mudball might . She had to  _ leave _ , before all the softness swallowed her up.


End file.
